Summary
"Unbalanced, he tilted backwards and fell into the void – the fall was several feet high.
In a stupid reflex, he stretched his arms out in front of him to try to absorb the shock. He crashed brutally to the ground in a crack of bone and cartilage as the pain spread from his left arm to his shoulder."
A/N: In the first part, I wanted to depict Cal's daily life as a scrapper on Bracca. For the second part I just rewrote an old fic I had already published. It is quite interesting to see the changes between my old writing and my current writing. If you want to have a look, it is in "Before the Mantis" (but be careful, if you read the whole thing, you might spoil the next chapter!).
I thank melrosethecat for the beta-reading.
Chapter 8 – Injured
When Cal woke up that morning, he was in a sullen mood. He had dreamed again – a pleasant dream, a dream of his Padawan past. This time waking up had not been a terrifying experience. Just a very painful experience.
Rule #2: Accept the past.
Accept the past? It had been a long time since Cal had accepted it – or rather, was desperately trying to forget it. The more time passed, the less he wanted to remember the past, which he now knew with absolute certainty was over. There were no longer any Jedi. He himself was no longer a Jedi – had he ever been one? He could no longer feel the Force as he once could. Busy with his daily toil, he forgot about it most of the time. On the rare occasions when he thought of it, all he felt was a hazy sensation. It seemed distant and indistinct, as distant and indistinct as the stars shining in the night sky. When he focused on feeling it, it became impalpable and ethereal, as impalpable and ethereal as a light breeze.
It had been ages since he had used the Force anyway. The last time, in Darzay's office, it had ended badly – fortunately not for him – and he had promised himself never never to use it again.
A shiver ran down his spine at the memory of Darzay. He had managed not to think about him for the past two days – a record considering the number of nightmares he had had about him since his escape from the Seventh Heaven eight months ago. He really hoped that he would eventually forget about it, even though he knew deep down that it would be difficult to do so. Not to think about Darzay again – that was another promise Cal had made to himself.
The teenager sat on the edge of his bed, looking glumly around his apartment – or rather, his room. It was small, yes, but at least he felt safe there – alone, with no one to attack him in the middle of the night. It was now his cocoon, his only shelter.
The morning sunlight was flooding the room. The concrete walls were a plain gray without any decoration except for a clock on the right wall and a coat hook near the front door. The bed was stuck against the back wall under the only window that lit the room. Cal liked to look at the stars at night, buried under his blanket, before falling asleep – when the sky was not overcast with gray clouds, which unfortunately often happened on Bracca. It was a sight that comforted him – one of the few things that comforted him.
Next to his bed, a small metal wardrobe, also gray, contained the few possessions he had. Against the left wall, a tiny kitchen just allowed him to heat up the ready-made meals he bought in the evening on his way home from work. The only other furniture was a table and two chairs in the middle of the room. Everything else – such as the bathroom – was shared with the tenants of the other rooms on the third and last floor of the small building in which he lived.
It was not the height of luxury, but it was all that his meager salary could afford.
He stood up to make his bed, and then he walked to the kitchenette and opened the fridge, inspecting its contents carefully. He pouted when he realized that it was almost empty – he was going to have to think about doing some food shopping. He took out a bottle of blue milk and an old protein muffin.
He then shuffled his feet to the table before slumping into a chair and biting into the muffin. It was dry and rancid. Yuck. Yeah, he was really going to have to do some shopping. He opened the bottle of milk before drinking straight from the neck to try to get rid of the moldy taste of the muffin. Then he finished his frugal breakfast without even realizing he was eating. The best he could say about this meal was that he had satisfied his hunger.
Once he finished, he stood up and put the bottle of milk away in the fridge before looking at the clock hanging on the wall.
"Karabast!" he grumbled when he saw the time. He was late. He would not have time to go to the bathroom. Too bad. In less than an hour he would be covered in black grease and sweat anyway.
He hurriedly opened his wardrobe and quickly took out clean clothes – all identical and provided by the Guild. At least he did not waste time every morning choosing what to wear. He removed his pajamas and quickly slipped on his work clothes. Then he put on his boots, buckled his belt, quickly checked for missing tools, grabbed his blue and orange poncho hanging on the coat rack, and quickly turned the lock on the door to open it. He ran through the hallway to try to catch up, turned toward the stairs, and ran down the steps two at a time while putting on his poncho before stepping out onto the street.
The sky was now gray. It was raining again – like most days – but the streets of District 32 were already crowded. Cal walked briskly toward the train station, hoping that the work day that awaited him at the scrapyard would not be too bad.
Damn it.
Cal knew that he should not have accepted this task. However, the Guild's foreman had promised him a nice bonus for that job, and he couldn't refuse. Besides, someone had to go retrieve that hull-cutting droid that had gotten lost somewhere up there in the Venator wreckage on which his team had been working for three weeks now. Plus, he was the last rigger to join the team. So, it was up to him to do it. And he didn't want Tabbers to make fun of him and call him a baby again – even though he always said it was a joke. He was going to show them all what he could do.
Cal nimbly climbed along the wall, hoping to find that damn lost droid quickly. If it was a scrapper who went missing, the Guild wouldn't have even bothered to send someone to look for him. However, those cutter droids were expensive – more expensive than the life of a mere rigger like him. And these days the Guild was seeking by all means possible to save every credit – just look at the pittance he was getting every month for risking his life on those old wrecked ships.
Yes, it is true, he could have refused. However, he needed this work. He thought back to Sarali'nda who had lost three fingers last week and her job in the process. No, really, Cal needed this job too much. He knew it was not the best job he could get on Bracca, but it was not the worst either, far from it – he knew something about that.
Stop! He had promised himself not to think about Darzay again.
Ah! Here it is! He had just spotted the droid. This idiot had jammed his blade in a piece of hull far too thick for him. Cal cautiously walked on the thin ledge before jumping onto a tiny platform – he had to be careful not to fall – right behind the droid.
"Easy, it's going to be okay," Cal whispered softly to try to calm the droid who, obviously panicked, was desperately trying to get off the durasteel. He gently grabbed the droid in his hands and pulled with all his might to help it free itself.
Suddenly, the blade slipped out of the hull, and the droid made an abrupt backward movement. Cal had just enough time to take a step back, narrowly avoiding the droid, but he felt the droid's blade scratch his face.
Unbalanced, he tilted backwards and fell into the void – the fall was several feet high.
In a stupid reflex, he stretched his arms out in front of him to try to absorb the shock. He crashed brutally to the ground in a crack of bone and cartilage as the pain spread from his left arm to his shoulder.
The fall drove all the air out of his chest. He tried to breathe but could not, and for several terrifyingly long seconds, he could not fill his lungs. He felt Death's hand tighten around his neck. Seized by panic, he hiccupped, gasped, and finally his lungs filled. Death released his grip.
The panic gradually subsided, replaced by suffering. Overwhelmed by the pain, he curled up on the floor clutching his shoulder and started sobbing – it hurt so much! He lay on the ground for a long time without moving, crying his eyes out. He felt as if his whole arm was on fire, as if his bones, muscles, and skin were burning.
However, the pain eventually subsided, and he came to his senses. He struggled to straighten up and managed with difficulty to sit on the floor. He looked at his still sore shoulder. It was at a strange angle – it was probably dislocated.
He also felt the blood dripping copiously on his chin and his service poncho. He ran his right hand over his face, brushing it with his fingertips, and felt a large gash across his nose – that damn droid's blade had not missed him. A bit more and he would croak.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts and reflect. He had to find help. Perhaps there was another scrapper nearby who could help him?
"A-Anybody there?" he shouted with all the strength in his lungs.
His voice bounced off the metal walls before dying, as if sucked into a horrible silence. No answer. Cal was well and truly alone.
He knew the Guild would not send anyone to get him. He was not worth it. And Prauf was not on the junkyard today – it was his day off. He was also the only one on the team who might have noticed Cal's disappearance. No, for sure, he was on his own.
With his dislocated shoulder, he knew it was not even bothering to try to climb back up. So, his only option was to make his way through the wreckage until he found a way out. At this point, he thanked the long hours spent exploring every nook and cranny of the Venator on which he served during the Clone Wars.
He tried to get up. However, as soon as he stood up, pain pierced his arm. It was as if the hot blade of a sharp knife was being thrust into his shoulder, over and over again. His vision blurred and he lost his balance – he felt sick. He caught himself with his good hand by leaning against the hull of the ship and puked his breakfast on the floor. Goodbye blue milk and protein muffin. Once his stomach was emptied of its contents, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and thought again. He had to find a way to ease the pain if he wanted to be able to move around.
Then he had an idea: he could use his work harness to make a makeshift splint – with his arm held, he would surely have less pain.
He unclipped the buckle of his harness, which slid to the ground. He bent down to try to pick it up, but his head spun again, making the walls around him seem to warp. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly to clear the fog from his brain. Then he sat down on the floor. He took the harness and, clutching his wounded arm to his chest, he pulled it under his poncho, wrapped it around his torso and pulled it tight. He tried clumsily to fasten the buckle with one hand and had to start again twice before finally succeeding.
He tried once again to stand up and this time he managed to do so without passing out. The pain was still there, but not as bad. He sighed with relief. He was going to be able to walk.
He looked around until he found a hole in the wall, and he slipped through. Fortunately, he was not tall for his age. He progressed as best he could through the bowels of the ship despite his splinted arm. The hull creaked under the onslaught of the wind. It was almost as if the ship was moaning in pain as the army of scrappers slowly tore it apart, piece by piece. Cal sniffed. A perfect allegory for his life.
Suddenly, he heard another noise – like scratching and squeaking – before he saw dozens of eyes glowing with an eerie yellow light in the darkness around him. Scrap rats – they must have been lured here by the smell of blood still dripping from the wound on his face. He had heard plenty of stories of missing scrappers found dead, eaten by the hungry rats. Cal did not know if these stories were true – Tabbers tended to exaggerate, and Cal sometimes wondered if half the stories he told were true. Still, he could not help but shiver. Stories or not, he did not want to find out if Tabbers had lied. He had to get out of here quickly before he ended up being eaten by the rats – or something worse.